


Fatigue and Fishes

by telm_393



Series: The Fourth Floor (a.k.a. The Magnificent Seven 2016 'Sitcom' Modern AU) [5]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Comedy, Cross-Generational Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Grocery Shopping, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, Light Angst, Light-Hearted, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Older Characters, Pre-Slash Faraday/Vasquez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telm_393/pseuds/telm_393
Summary: Josh and Vasquez can’t sleep, so they hang out instead. Goodnight and Billy do some spring cleaning. (It's not spring, but, as Vasquez says, 'spring cleaning' is much more concise than 'stressful drama cleaning time'.) Sam, Jack, and Red Harvest go on a grocery shopping adventure.It’s a long few days.





	Fatigue and Fishes

**Author's Note:**

> I SAID I WOULD POST THIS BEFORE THE MONTH WAS UP, AND LO AND FRICKING BEHOLD, IT IS HERE!!!
> 
> Also, is this really how insomnia works? Answer: eh.

Josh can’t sleep. It's not really an uncommon problem for him, but it's not a welcome one either.

There are patches of time when Josh can’t ever sleep through a night, and he’s in the middle of one, and it’s driving him _insane._ Sure, he usually goes to sleep late, but at least he manages to sleep enough hours to not feel like a zombie during the day.

Driving him to drink is what it’s doing, he thinks darkly as he finds himself pouring out a glass of gin at three in the morning after two rocky hours of sleep. He collapses into the single chair at his kitchen table and knocks it back. He’d wince at the taste, but he’s not that kind of guy. If it tastes like battery acid, it tastes like battery acid. Doesn’t matter, as long as it gets him trashed enough to sleep for the twelve straight hours he needs to reset himself until he gets insomnia again.

But he doesn’t even feel drowsy, just bleary, and he lets out an angry huff as he stares down the bottle. What the hell is he supposed to do now? He knows he shouldn’t keep drinking until he _actually_ passes out—that’s the kind of thing that fucked him over for like three years of his life, and Josh has been practicing that ‘self-control’ thing lately.

But.

Maybe if he mixes it with chamomile tea?

 _Maybe,_ if he knew how to make tea, which he doesn’t, because he’s not fucking British.

He sighs heavily and goes to pick up the bottle. What the hell, chugging some more gin for the sake of tricking his mind into letting him sleep like a human again won’t hurt.

A weird growl-whine hell sound comes from the corner of the kitchen, and the bottle stops halfway to Josh’s lips as he swings his head towards it, worried that Jack’s dying or peeing somewhere he shouldn’t be or something. 

Instead, all he’s doing is staring at Josh like _don’t you fucking do it asshole_ , and Josh really shouldn’t be getting stared down by a dog, but maybe he _should_ be, because it was Jack who used to lick his drunk tears off his face after Josh acquired him through less-than-legal means.

(Josh had been planning to pawn him off, actually, before that, because Jack’s purebred, but after—he didn’t have the heart, even if it would’ve been better for both of them.)

And Jack is the reason Josh cut back in the first place, when he had a _very_ vivid nightmare about choking on his own vomit (sad when it happens to a twenty-seven year old rockstar, pathetic when it happens to a thirty-whatever pro gambler) and Jack being forced to eat his corpse.

Josh crossed his heart and hoped to die that he’d maybe, possibly, clean up _just enough_ to be able to take care of a fucking _dog,_ and, well—

He puts down the bottle.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “You got a point.”

He puts away the alcohol, and turns to Jack. “Happy now?”

Jack gives him a look that’s pretty much the dog equivalent of a shrug, curls up, and goes to sleep.

Josh stares.

“…You little asshole.”

He’d stew for a little longer, but it turns out he’s not the only one awake at this godforsaken hour.

He realizes this when he hears a crash in the next apartment, followed by what he is sure is creative swearing in Spanish.

Snickering a little, because Josh is still endlessly amused by slapstick, he calls, "You alright, Vasquez?"

There's a feeble groan from the other apartment, and Josh screws his face up in what may or may not be worry. Maybe the guy actually got hurt. Josh debates whether to go over there, and finally ends up sighing and shrugging to himself.

There's nothing better to do. Plus, he gets an excuse to go over to see Vasquez at night, with no hangers-on, which makes his heartbeat kick up a notch before his heart realizes it's firmly nestled in the chest of a thirty seven year old man who has one hundred percent hustled people out of their paychecks and not felt a damn thing but satisfaction, and promptly goes back to being reasonable. Because, yeah, there’s really no reason for Josh's body to be doing anything out of the ordinary when considering Vasquez, anyway.

Except for making its way to Vasquez's apartment and knocking on the door, apparently. "You dead?" Josh asks casually.

After nearly a minute, during which Josh gets the urge to check an invisible watch just to be a dick (Josh doesn't have to be around people to be a dick—God's always watching, after all, and he has a reputation to uphold; Josh doesn't want God thinking he's getting too nice, it might disturb his choice place in Hell), Vasquez wrenches open the door.

He's dressed in a tank top that seems to be three sizes too small, and sweatpants that seem to be three sizes too big. Considering Vasquez's general clothing choices, Josh isn't actually sure if he owns any sizes in between. The bags under his eyes are, as Josh has been noting recently, worse, though he's not sure how Vasquez’s body managed that one.

At this point it looks like the suitcases under his eyes have packed their _own_ suitcases and _would_ be going to Aruba, except they’re too tired.

Josh is honestly impressed that Vasquez manages to get through the day.

Even if he doesn't leave his apartment much. (Josh still hasn’t asked.)

"Don't tell me you were worried," Vasquez says, smirking.

Josh shrugs. "You're the one making a ruckus right next door. You know how thin those damn walls are." He _has_ to, given how much of his communicating is done through said walls. Bored of standing in the hallway like an idiot, Josh breezes past Vasquez and collapses onto his couch, which is far more comfortable than Josh's.

"Oh, come in," Vasquez mutters. "Make yourself at home."

"Hey, I knocked," Josh can't help but say. "Better than at least one seventh of us."

Vasquez rolls his eyes. "Red Harvest has the social skills of a rock if that rock grew up under another rock. You can't compare any of us to him."

Josh snorts, but, for whichever reason, still feels a need to defend his friend. "I can think of a few of us who aren't much better." He pauses. "I can think of an all of us who aren't much better. _We_ just all know how to knock."

Vasquez rolls his eyes. "Whatever," he mutters, collapsing next to Josh. "At least I can have some company. And no, I did not harm myself, thank you for asking."

"Hey, my presence was asking that."

"Yes, so I answered the question. Why are you not asleep at this hour?"

"Take a wild guess."

“Can't sleep either?”

"Ding ding, compadre," Josh responds with a heavy sigh. "I'm betting you can't either, but I'd bet that in broad daylight too. You look like a guy who don't sleep."

"I sleep enough. I am alive."

"Well, that's always something," Josh mutters. "Congratulations. So when do you sleep?"

"When I can. Some hours here and there at night and during the day. You?"

"I usually sleep better than this. I mean, not eight hours like a wimp, but. I usually ain't awake at this time. I just get like this sometimes." Josh shakes his head in disappointment. "Fucking boring, is what it is."

"I agree. None of the good programs are on at this hour."

"What, your soap operas?"

"It's all reruns of _EastEnders_ and _El amor de la lechuza._ I have nothing against _EastEnders,_ of course, I am a self-respecting man, but they only ever play the worst episodes at night. And if I watch _El amor de la lechuza_ one time more, I'll..." Vasquez trails off and makes a vague motion. It explains nothing.

Josh still nods sagely, as if he has any clue what Vasquez is talking about. "All I ever find are infomercials."

Vasquez nods. “I see those sometimes too. The other day I saw one for a potato juicer. Who juices potatoes? And it was the only thing it could do. There was no redeeming value other than potatoes."

"Well, there are lots of kinds of potatoes."

"I know. I'm Mexican, where did you think you Americans got all your potatoes from?"

"...Mexico?”

"No, Peru and Bolivia.”

"What? You said Mexico."

"I said I was Mexican. Pay attention."

Josh wrinkles his nose. "This is like talking to Goody when he's on a roll."

"I'm very tired. I think I may be able to sleep tonight." Vasquez frowns. "And I don't think I'm talking nearly enough to be Goody. Maybe Jack."

Josh's last conversation with Jack was thirty percent Bible verses. Josh shrugs and then tips his head back and groans, reminded again of how exhausted and not-asleep he is.

They lapse into an awkward silence, a situation that Josh does not like but also doesn't have the energy to fix.

Vasquez turns the TV on.

Someone starts shrieking in Spanish.

"Make it stop," Josh mumbles.

"Deal with it, guero," Vasquez mumbles back. "This isn't even your apartment."

"Y'know I can hear your TV half the time? Yesterday I'm pretty sure I heard an episode where various characters come out of a coma, go back into a coma, have a baby, get caught up in a car crash, and die."

"Sherry had a very bad day," Vasquez admits.

Josh blinks. “That was one character? Who writes this shit?"

"Geniuses," Vasquez says gravely. _"Geniuses."_

Josh wants to make some kind of quip, though he hasn't decided on what it'll be yet, but Vasquez's warm body pressed up against his side lulls him into something like drowsiness rather than agitated exhaustion, and then something like sleep.

Or just plain old sleep.

Josh wakes up to loud arguing down the hall in Goodnight and Billy's apartment. He mumbles in confusion as he opens his eyes, which, considering the light spilling in through the window, have been closed for a quite honestly shocking length of time under the circumstances.

Vasquez is draped over him, one arm around his shoulders, one around his stomach, and the side of his face smushed into his shoulder. He's drooling. It's very unattractive.

But he's asleep. Josh is impressed, mostly with himself, because clearly his presence is the equivalent of an Ambien.

He frowns.

Is that a good thing?

Or maybe they were just both tired enough to beat insomnia that night.

"By genre? Billy, I adore you, but you must be mad! You don't alphabetize by genre! Have you been waiting for this? To ruin my alphabetization?"

“You got your way last year.”

“Because it’s the only way!"

Josh feels his face screw up in confusion, and then a surge of annoyance when Vasquez stirs. The man needs his sleep, and now Goody and Billy's spat is ruining it.

Also, Josh. _Josh_ needs his sleep. He is the more important one here. He lives in his body, not Vasquez's.

"What the hell?" He mutters as Sam yells something about closing the door and the arguing goes down significantly in volume.

Vasquez groans. "It's spring cleaning. Every year, Goodnight and Billy decide to jeopardize their relationship by cleaning and organizing their entire apartment. It will be like this for a while, but at least _they_ sleep."

“Ain’t even spring," Josh points out.

“I know,” Vasquez says. “But ‘stressful drama cleaning time’ is too long.”

Josh snickers and then shifts a little, realizing that most of his torso has gone numb and, despite his feeling unusually rested, there's a crick in his neck from having slept half-seated, leaning against the arm of a couch.

It's at that point that Vasquez seems to realize his position (all over Josh is his position) and he immediately bolts upright so fast that Josh thinks he might've actually given himself whiplash, taking the way he's rubbing at his neck from the far end of the couch (that is, the away from Josh end of the couch) into account.

Josh snorts with laughter. "Nice to know I'm so disgusting,” he teases, not even a little hurt. He's woken up to worse reactions, and Josh is pretty sure he lost the ability to feel hurt somewhere between his mother's death and his first and only break-up.

Vasquez rolls his eyes in response, body relaxing again. “Completely revolting, guero.”

“The fuck’s a guero anyway?” Josh asks.

Vasquez shrugs, as if he’s not the one who’s decided to call Josh that.

“Sexy?” Josh suggests. “Hot like lava? Blindingly handsome?”

“Sure,” Vasquez says with laughter in his voice. “All of those things, every single one.”

 _“How do we not have Drano?!”_ Goodnight’s voice floats down the hall. “How are we going to clean anything without cleaning supplies?!”

“You were supposed to buy them,” Billy snaps. “Don’t blame it on _me.”_

“Oh, what, I’m just supposed to do everything around here?! The shopping, the cleaning…”

“You don’t _do_ things, Goody, you _monopolize_ them. I’d do many more things if you didn’t spend the rest of the day groaning about how I did it wrong!”

“Well, how dare—”

Vasquez yells, then. “Both of you need to pipe down! You’re not the only ones who live on this floor!”

No apologies come from the apartment across the hall, but they do, as Vasquez said, _pipe down._ So that’s something. Vasquez huffs. “There will be more of this,” he says solemnly.

“I can’t believe I’m more of a grown-up than those two,” Josh confides.

“It’s always strange to realize,” Vasquez agrees. “But sometimes it’s different, you know, they’re the only ones in a real, stable relation…” Vasquez trails off a little and swallows hard before chuckling and continuing, “…ah, it’s hard to explain until you see it. You haven’t been here long.”

“No, really?” Josh drawls, and then he groans. “Don’t remind me.”

He’s putting it on, honestly, the lack of excitement deal.

Yeah, it’s overwhelming sometimes, remembering that this is his life now but also sort of isn’t his life yet. After all, Red Harvest only just started talking to him in more than one sentence at a time _and_ without an animal as a buffer. And it hasn’t been long since Sam and Billy stopped directing those Narrow Eyed Suspicious Just-Try-to-Fuck-With-Me Glares at him. And Jack’s only recently started actually talking to him too.

And so on.

But it’s…better than anything’s been since Josh’s mother got sick, and it’s only been, what, three months? And Josh is glad there’s more to discover.

“It just gets crazier from here,” Vasquez says cheerfully, as he has said several times before, with what Josh is pretty sure is a hint of schadenfreude in his voice. Maybe it has to do with the fact that Josh has taken his place as the newest inhabitant of the fourth floor and he’s having a ball knowing more about the place and how nuts it can get than someone else. The man’s a goddamn gossip, in short.

(Also, Josh learned the word schadenfreude from Goodnight. He’s pretty sure it’s his new favorite.)

“At least it’s always interesting,” Josh says, shrugging as casually as possible because Vasquez can’t know that the schadenfreude’s not very appropriate here, considering that Josh is pretty much having the time of his life.

“Discovery Channel?”

“Maybe. I just hate being bored, compadre.”

Vasquez snickers. “I love how you say that word, guero.” He puts on a terrible American accent and drawls out, _“com-pod-raaay.”_

“Well, that’s just embarrassing,” Josh mutters. “Ain’t even funny. I think sleep deprivation is fucking over your sense of humor.”

“No, I’m always this charming and hilarious.”

“You sure you just aren’t always this sleep-deprived?”

Vasquez makes a _well, that might be it_ face, and says, “Actually, I slept more than I thought I would.”

“You’re welcome,” Josh says grandly.

Vasquez pointedly doesn’t respond, just says, “I need to start trying more. Maybe some chamomile tea…”

“I was just considering that the other night,” Josh says. “But I don’t know how to make it.”

“Maybe I can ask someone to bring some next time they go to the store.”

“D’you know how to make tea?” Josh asks hopefully.

Vasquez grimaces. “Well…I’ve heard it’s just putting a bag in a cup of water, can’t be too hard.”

“Famous last words,” Josh says, and then, with a sudden burst of energy, he grabs a notepad and a pen from Vasquez’s table and, for the first time in a long time, puts pen to paper.

_WAYS 2 SLEEP_

_CAMOMYLE TEA_

Vasquez looks down at what he’s written and snorts with laughter. “What, you’re making a list?”

“Takin’ a page from the idiots down the hall,” Josh says. “Organizing and shit. Lists make everything official. We just have to try this next time.”

“Only this? That’s not a list.”

“Well, it’ll _grow,_ dumbass.”

“Oh, well, I apologize, esteemed guest of mine, for not understanding your unique take on list-making.”

Josh smiles smugly, even though he knows Vasquez is being sarcastic. “That’s fuckin’ right.” He looks around. “Well, I figure I’ll…do what I do all day, and leave you to…what the hell do you do all day?”

Vasquez purses his lips. “Sleep, sometimes. Watch television. Other very important things.”

“Don’t you work?”

“I do,” Vasquez says. “But I’m not telling you what it is, because you’re already judging me.”

“I’m not!”

“I can feel it.”

Josh throws his hands up, because he actually isn’t, he’s just wondering how Vasquez hasn’t died of boredom yet. “I’m _not,_ you goof.” He pauses, and then smirks. “You do cam porn, don’t you?”

Vasquez looks at him with an expression of absolute shock that eventually transforms into a grin, followed by laughter. “Yes! Exactly! I’m very popular!”

“Wait, seriously?”

“No, you _goof!”_

Josh collapses into laughter along with him, feeling a little loopy with sleep deprivation, though it’s not _quite_ as bad as before.

He and Vasquez laugh like idiots right up until someone raps at the door.

They quiet down to snickers, and Vasquez yells, “If it’s Goodnight or Billy, you have _no right_ telling us to be quiet!”

“It’s not Goody or Billy! It’s Emma, asking if you need anything, because I’m going to the store, and honestly, I don’t want to know what you guys are doing.”

“Oh, we’re fucking,” Josh responds very seriously.

Vasquez throws his head back and cackles like a witch, and Emma says, “You guys are terrible together and I hate you and you’ve probably just been watching soap operas, but seriously, Vasquez, if you need anything _small,_ slide some money under the door and tell me what you want.”

“Slide some money under the door?” Josh asks Vasquez. “What are you, a hermit?”

Josh gets up and opens the door, leaning against it very casually and grinning down at Emma. “Hello there.”

Emma looks up at him, unimpressed. “Does Vasquez need anything?”

“Chamomile tea!” Vasquez yells from inside.

“And I need to go to work instead of getting distracted by this guy,” Josh says, shoving past Emma so gently it can barely be called a shove.

“Fine!” Vasquez calls from behind him. “Go, do your completely legal and moral work.”

“My work _is_ legal and moral, asshole,” Josh shoots back over his shoulder, because it is, sort of. At least the legal part. Most of the time. Look, Josh pays taxes. “As I am morally obligated to part idiots with their money and give it to a needy party.”

“The needy party is you, isn’t it?”

“Damn straight!”

Emma sighs heavily. “Is this going to be a thing? The bantering? Because it just keeps going. Are you gonna stand here all day being jerks at each other?”

Josh and Vasquez share a considering look before both shake their heads. “Nah,” Josh says. “I really _do_ have work to do.” He has food to buy, after all, and he really needs some more actual clothes.

He heads over to his apartment and makes sure not to look back to see if Vasquez is watching him go.

+

Sam hates ‘spring cleaning’.

He also hates how the walls are thin whenever he doesn’t want to hear something. It’s like they choose the worst moments to block sound about as effectively as tissue paper.

Goodnight and Billy have one of the most stable relationships Sam has ever seen, especially considering each of them when they’re on their own, but this happens _every goddamn year._

Every year, they wait until this exact moment to have all the petty arguments they don’t usually have.

They’re not ever real arguments. When Billy and Goodnight have _real_ arguments, they generally go for the silent treatment, and, well, Sam’s gonna have to admit that that’s worse.

He could go the rest of his life without Goodnight couch-surfing in his apartment when his _own_ apartment is literally _right there_ , and if he never again hears Goodnight start a sentence with, “well, you can tell _Billy…”_ , it’ll be too soon.

“You’re being unreasonable!” Goodnight says, which is just rich.

“Dusters are just ways to spread more dust! The cloth is much more effective. That’s just science.”

“This duster is made of _ostrich feathers,_ Billy. It has to be effective.”

“Is that even legal?”

“I wrangled the ostrich myself, Billy, I can guarantee it was unharmed.”

“What was even your childhood?”

“Complicated. More importantly, what about the Hummel figurines? We don’t need them.”

“Those are precious to me!”

“There are only seven! That’s not even enough for a collection! It’s only enough to be _weird!”_

Sam rolls his eyes and moves away from his living room, hoping that the acoustics will be worse in the kitchen, and lo and behold, he can’t even hear Billy and Goodnight in there, for no reason at all.

Sam swears that the fourth floor doesn’t obey any laws of any kind of field of science at all, though he could be wrong. Sam nearly failed every science class he ever took. The only reason he ever passed was because his older sister was so good at it, but she was good at most things. When he was little, Lottie told him that she knew everything, and Sam only realized she was pulling his leg two years later, when his second grade teacher broke the news to him.

He peers hopefully into his fridge and sighs in relief when he sees a beer. The label’s peeled off because every time Billy comes to his apartment, he tears the labels off of _everything._ Sam has no idea why. He’s stopped asking.

But a beer’s a beer, and Sam usually just buys Product Placement anyway, so he assumes that that’s what it is until he takes a gulp and splutters in disgust.

What the hell?

He takes a more cautious sip and a headache of frustration begins to build behind his eyes, because, yep, that’s non-alcoholic.

Sam knows exactly who did this, switched out exactly _one_ of Sam’s beers for the non-alcoholic kind—the same man who’s done it before, but not enough for Sam to make peace with the idea that he might end up with the liquid equivalent of disappointment when he goes to have a goddamn drink because he _deserves_ it.

People think Red Harvest doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Sam only wishes he didn’t.

“That little shit,” he mutters darkly as someone knocks on the door.

Sam really hopes it’s not Goodnight trying to pull him into an argument over something objectively stupid, because if that is the case, he will not be responsible for his actions.

He drags himself over anyway, his entire body aching because he’s gotten far, far too old, and opens the door, just in case it’s something less unimportant. (Look, he’s not some kind of mother hen who has to know how his chicks are doing all the time—he’s opened that door to less unimportant things many times before.) He sighs in relief when he sees Jack, who smiles and says, “Do you have a moment to hear about our friend Jesus?”

Sam cackles at the joke—it’s a classic—and gestures to let Jack in, closing the door quickly when he sees Josh pass by, wearing an actual cowboy hat and saying something into what’s clearly a burner phone.

 _Don’t make eye contact, they can smell your frustration,_ he thinks uncharitably before turning to Jack, who, unlike everyone else, isn’t crazy.

Well, actually, Jack’s certifiable, but that’s not what Sam means. “I swear these idiots are gonna be the death of me,” Sam complains. “I try to get some beer to unwind, and what do I find? The last one in the fridge is…”

“Non-alcoholic,” Jack says knowingly. “That old trick.”

Sam shakes his head. “When does he do that? Where does he even get them? I never see him buy non-alcoholic beer when we go grocery shopping. Boggles my mind that he actually goes to the store _alone_ sometimes and ends up with shit like _this_.”

Jack snorts with laughter. “He goes alone when he has incentive, and food ain’t an incentive for him ’til he’s starving and it ain’t hunting season anymore.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m gonna kill that boy. Or at least get my beer back. Or…you got any, Jack?”

Jack seems to ponder the question as though it’s one of life’s great mysteries and says, “I believe so. But do you really need to imbibe to relax?”

“If you suggest prayer, I’m turning you into a rug,” Sam mutters, and Jack says something like _fair enough_ as Sam shoves his way out the door and into Jack’s apartment, ignoring whatever Billy and Goodnight are bitching at each other about now. He doesn’t usually go to Jack’s place, but he’s been often enough to know where everything is, including the mysterious six pack of beer that’s been sitting in the fridge since the dawn of time.

When Sam opens the fridge, he pauses before taking out one of the cans, because other than the Mysterious Beer, there’s just about nothing else. “Don’t you have any food?”

“Course I do,” Jack replies easily, gesturing to a dwindling supply of cans of peaches, beans, and creamed corn, along with an enormous bag of beef jerky.

Sam blinks, sighs heavily, and, as a Doctor of Logic, gives his diagnosis. “Hate to say it, Jack, but your food hoard’s gone.”

Jack sighs. “I’ll admit I’ve been meanin’ to get around to buying some more, but I swear those stores just get bigger every time I go.”

Sam feels an uncomfortable tug in his chest at the words, but Jack’s been confused for years now, this is nothing new. Not really. Besides, there’s no reason for him to grocery shop alone. He always goes with Sam and Red Harvest on their “grocery shopping adventures”. At least, that’s what Vasquez calls them.

Sam guesses he’d consider grocery shopping an adventure too if he almost never left his apartment.

“Well, I should go food shopping too, and I’ll bet Red needs something, even if it’s just some more random shit he uses to fuck with people.”

“Grocery shopping adventure,” Jack says, sounding pleased.

“Yep. Grocery shopping adventure.” Sam goes to the blessedly quiet living room, sinks into the couch, and promptly decides he’s done for the day. He’s old, alright? He’s gonna take a day off from life. “…Tomorrow.”

Jack nods sagely. “Tomorrow.”

+

Josh gets home late enough that Billy and Goodnight’s arguments seem to have piped down. They’re probably sleeping, the lucky bastards, because _apparently_ it’s midnight.

But Josh had a good day at work and is set for the rest of the month, which is the rest of the week, so that’s good. He doesn’t feel as much like celebrating as he usually would, but that’s probably the sleep deprivation.

Sleep deprivation, right.

Josh knocks on Vasquez’s door. He’s on the third knock when it swings open, which means he drives his fist into Vasquez’s very firm chest.

“Ow,” Vasquez complains, stepping aside to let Josh in.

“Chamomile tea,” Josh says, ignoring him. “On the list. Chamomile tea, did Emma get it?”

Vasquez’s face brightens and he nods. “She did!”

“Let’s do this,” Josh says, making a beeline for the kitchen island and grabbing the box of tea that’s sitting on the counter. He takes out a tea bag. “Okay. Boil some water, put the bag in the water…can’t be hard.”

“Famous last words,” Vasquez says mockingly.

But, actually, once they boil the water and pour some into mugs and plop a couple bags into the mugs, it…is completely fine.

“You know,” Vasquez muses as he waits for the tea to cool down or steep or whatever, “I was really expecting a disaster. I don’t know what, I just figured it would go wrong.”

Josh nods. “Me too, compadre.”

Unfortunately, the tea is horrible. Josh chugs it like cough medicine while Vasquez seems to try to savor it, even though it tastes like dirty flavored water, and eventually just chugs it too.

“Guero…I think I burned my entire insides,” Vasquez says weakly.

Josh swallows a whimper of agreement, because he’s not sure how _both_ of them were stupid enough to not notice how hot the tea still was until _after_ the fact, and instead says, voice strained, “Well, I feel great.”

“Sleepy?”

“…Not _that_ great.” Josh sits down heavily on the couch, and Vasquez slouches next to him. “I don’t think this is gonna work.”

“You are a defeatist,” Vasquez says, and then he sighs. “It’s definitely not going to work.”

Josh gives him a look, and Vasquez shrugs. “I’m also a defeatist.”

“Well, we need to continue the list,” Josh says, surging forward and grabbing it from its place exactly where he left it that morning. “What else? Being drunk? That helps me sleep.” He’s half-joking, since he’s already decided that’s a no-go, but he wants to see what Vasquez will say.

Vasquez scoffs. “Then we’d just wake up with a hangover.”

“Yeah, but I have the best hangover remedy ever.”

“No one has the best hangover remedy ever,” Vasquez says solemnly. “They only _say_ they do, and then you eat it and the only thing that’s changed is that you have a hangover and have also eaten raw eggs.”

“I do have the best remedy, though. You just keep drinking. Y’know, get tipsy, bam.”

“You realize that you are suggesting staying drunk forever?”

“Exactly,” Josh says, grinning.

“That’s a bad idea,” Vasquez says flatly.

“Well, I don’t see you coming up with anything better,” Josh points out, fake-offended, and Vasquez gives him a baffled look.

“Anything. I can come up with _anything_ better.”

“Okay,” Josh says, putting pen to paper and scribbling. “I’ll put down ‘get drunk and stay drunk until we die’ on the ‘maybe’ list.”

“You have to be joking.”

Josh snickers. “I totally am.”

“And you say _I’m_ not funny,” Vasquez says, but there’s laughter in his voice. “You know,” he starts in the kind of voice that makes Josh think he’s going to start telling some kind of story, Goodnight-style. “I heard from…a man I knew, that in Peru there are these fish that make you sleep for two days if you eat them. Because of the phosphorus.”

“You’re kidding,” Josh says.

“I’m not! I’m actually not. I swear on my life, they exist. They’re called peces borrachos, or, more commonly, peces borrachitos, or sometimes pecesitos borrachitos because Peruvians think everything is small and cute and needs a diminutive. Or to be shortened.”

Josh didn’t catch most of that, but whatever. “What does it mean?”

“Well, the direct translation is ‘drunk fish’. Or ‘drunken fish’, I don’t know.”

Josh guffaws. “We just keep coming back to drunk, huh?”

“They’re not really drunk!”

Josh pauses and is very suddenly hit with the knowledge of how fucking tired he is. “You think we can get our hands on some of those?” He asks dully, all of his energy sapped.

Vasquez shakes his head sadly. “I do not.”

“Get my hopes up, will ya?” Josh mutters, but there’s suddenly way more weight on him as Vasquez slips down his body and lands with his head in his lap, dangerously close to his dick. “Oh, great,” Josh says under his breath. “I really am a Vasquez sedative.”

He stares up at the ceiling and matches his breathing to Vasquez’s until he goes off to dreamland too.

Maybe the chamomile worked.

+

Sam went back to his apartment at some point, and fell asleep in his armchair like his mother used to. Sam would always tease her about how old she’d gotten when she did that.

Well, he’s older now than she’ll ever be, but he banishes the thought, instead focusing on the scratching at his door. Purple. He rolls his eyes and wonders if the damn cat’s got telepathy or something and knows that Sam promised a grocery shopping adventure yesterday.

(And maybe that Sam’s currently living off of ramen, cake, cashews, and sheer force of will, but he’ll never tell.)

She probably just wants more of those horribly expensive treats Red Harvest gets her, and Sam probably needs to stop acting like the cat is people.

He opens the door to Purple and looks down at her. She’s just sitting there on his welcome mat, which is extremely pink and which he did not buy, staring up at him imperiously. “What?” Sam asks.

Purple keeps staring at him. It’s very uncomfortable. She must’ve learned that look from Red Harvest.

They do say that pets end up resembling their owners, and knowing both Purple and Dog Jack, Sam has to say he’s started buying into that.

Sam sighs. “I do still need to ask him about the phone.”

(It keeps telling him that he has to do an “update”, but Sam’s not so sure about that, because he knows how unreliable these little computers can be. They tell you to do things, and then, bam! Your identity’s been erased.

He needs their resident Young Person’s input on this.)

Sam’s given up on not talking to Purple like she can actually understand him at this point. He’s too used to it by now.

He takes Purple in his arms despite her protests, marches over to Red Harvest’s apartment, and knocks insistently on the door.

Red Harvest opens it and lets slip a fleeting smile when he sees Purple, ignoring Sam completely.

“Hi, Purple,” he says, taking her from Sam’s arms. “I didn’t even notice you were gone yet.”

“She was scratching at my door,” Sam cuts in.

“You were?” Red Harvest asks Purple. Then he shrugs. “Well, it’s not like he had to open it.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “What was I supposed to do, let her destroy my door forever?” He shakes his head in exasperation. “Well, she reminded me of something anyway. Let me inside,” he says, and Red Harvest steps to the side and goes over to his terrible couch, Purple settling comfortably in his lap.

“What did you remind him of?” Red Harvest muses to Purple.

“One, I have a question about the iPhone. Two, Jack and I are going grocery shopping and you’re coming with us.”

Red Harvest finally looks up at Sam, raising his eyebrows. “Updates are, updates are _fine,_ and I have food,” he says.

“Do you?” Sam asks. “Do you really?”

Red Harvest narrows his eyes in annoyance, lets out a put upon sigh, and pushes Purple from his lap so that he can go over to his kitchen.

Sam follows, and Red Harvest waves a hand in silent invitation for Sam to look at how much food he has.

The refrigerator has some blueberries in it (not many), and two half-full bottles of Strawberry Fanta.

“Really?” Sam asks.

Red Harvest shrugs. “You know I like the, the color.”

Sam sighs, shuts the refrigerator, and looks in the cupboards. They’re full of granola, dried fruit, beef jerky, and cat food. Sam blinks. “At least there’s something,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Red Harvest says, lifting himself up to sit on the counter. “I just w-went shopping a, a few days ago.”

“That makes this so much worse,” Sam whispers, far less impressed by the food. He’d assumed he was finishing his food hoard. “How are you not dead?”

“Because I’m not? Actually, I’m, I’m _healthy._ Th-that’s what my, my body doctor says.” Red Harvest waits a beat. “You know I eat out a lot, so I don’t have to buy a _lot_ of food.”

Sam nods. “Yeah, but…if you’re going to actually go out to buy food on your own, which is great and you should keep doing that, you should actually buy real groceries.”

“I got bored. Any, anyway, th-this is fine. For food.”

Sam gives him a dubious look, still not sure why he has to actively convince Red Harvest to grocery shop for real every fucking time, though apparently they’re getting closer and closer to the day when this scene won’t play out before every grocery shopping adventure. “Granola, dried berries, and beef jerky are fine?”

“Fanta too.”

“What? That doesn’t count as food.”

“It was made to be ingested, and, and it has calories.” Red Harvest looks extremely smug.

Sam decides to give him that one, and says, “Okay, granola, dried berries, beef jerky, and soda are fine?”

“It’s all the food groups,” Red Harvest says.

Sam stares. “You’re a miracle of science, Red.”

“Okay.”

“We’re going grocery shopping for real, so I can actually see that you’re getting some variety in your diet, eating out or not.” At Red Harvest’s disinterested look, Sam decides to go for another tactic. “At least do it for Jack.”

Red Harvest seems to consider it for a second and then nods. “Yeah. He’s _kind_ of running out of food.”

“I’m sure you have no idea how that is.”

“Purple always has enough food,” Red Harvest says with mild indignation.

Sam doesn’t even touch that. “…Okay, let’s go to Costco. I’ll drive.”

Mostly because he’s the only one of them who _can_ drive.

Well, technically Red Harvest can drive, but like hell is Sam going to put himself and everyone around him in danger like that.

Sam’s been told he’s a control freak. The truth is just that he’s better at most things than everyone else.

Red Harvest slips on shoes, pats Purple on the head, and makes a beeline for Jack’s apartment, Sam following him, closing the door firmly so that a certain feline won’t get out and start bothering someone else.

Red Harvest’s already in Jack’s apartment, of course, and Jack’s either already told him to knock next time or has given up on it for now.

(Sometimes Sam thinks Red Harvest’s inability to knock is, like his apparent misunderstanding of what the food groups are, just him fucking with them all. It’s hard to tell, with someone so inexpressive and legitimately weird.)

Jack looks mildly confused at Sam and Red Harvest’s presence. “Grocery shopping adventure, remember?” Sam asks dryly.

“Ah, yes,” Jack responds sagely, and Sam’s not sure if he actually remembers or if he’s pretending to. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

He doesn’t ask. There’s no reason to. He just heads down to the parking garage with Red Harvest and Jack, who are chatting with each other about something that has to do with farriery that he’s too tired to follow right now, in tow.

Red Harvest, as always, loftily says that Sam’s car is a mess.

Sam wishes he could refute that, but considering the granola bar wrappers stuffed in the drink holders and the five and a half water bottles rolling around on the car floor and the fact that the thing hasn’t been washed or vacuumed in over a year, he really can’t. Especially compared to Red Harvest’s own obsessive neatness.

So, as always, Sam lets him have that one and shrugs it off.

Also as always, Jack is noticeably uncomfortable in the car, and Sam and Red Harvest both talk loudly to try and distract him, which works. Jack can be, in the right situation, easily distracted.

Finally, they pull into the parking lot.

When they get out of the car, Red Harvest looks at the parking job critically and shakes his head. “Not good.”

Sam rolls his eyes. It’s only a _little_ crooked. “Come on, let’s get this over with,” he grumbles, because he doesn’t actually like grocery shopping either. That’s what happens when you leave it all for the last minute, dumbass, a voice distressingly like Lottie’s tells him. It gets overwhelming, then it gets more overwhelming, and then you say ‘fuck it’ and eat Doritos for the rest of your life.

The three of them come here often enough that the employee (Linda, their name’s Linda, Sam’s not gonna pretend he doesn’t know) at the front door clearly recognizes the three of them when they walk in, and Sam and Jack both return Linda’s warm greeting. Red Harvest, for his part, makes a brave attempt at waving hello, but it mostly looks like he’s waving them off. Linda seems to understand, though.

The three of them are memorable enough that everyone knows them even though they only come here once a month.

Most seem to assume that Sam and Jack are a couple and that Red Harvest is their adopted son who moved in with his older parents to care for them. That last part wounds Sam deep in his soul, but he lets it go. Jack and Red Harvest don’t seem to be aware of what the good people of Costco think of them, and Sam doesn’t bring it up or try to dispel the assumption. He didn’t the first time he heard an employee explain “their deal” to a newer one, and now he’s stuck with it. Honestly, it’s close enough.

Red Harvest goes off on his own, and Sam reminds himself, just as he’s been reminding himself for years now, that he doesn’t have to worry when he does. The ‘panic attacks in big supermarkets’ years have long passed. Hell, Red Harvest can go to grocery stores on his own now, even if he still clearly doesn’t have the attention span to get more than a fourth of the way through grocery shopping on his own.

 _They grow up so fast,_ Sam thinks, far more sadly than he meant to. Red Harvest’s changed so much since he was nineteen (sorry, ‘almost twenty’), and he’s still young. He’s young and he’s gotten so much better and he’s getting better every day and it’s not too wild a thought that someday not too far off he might sell his apartment and spend the rest of his life…somewhere else. Maybe he’ll move away for work, to be closer to the horses, to expand his business. Maybe he’ll start building a family and have to find a bigger place. Maybe—well, there are a lot of maybes. Not for Sam, not anymore, or for Jack, but for Red Harvest?

Yeah.

He’s got his whole life ahead of him.

“Sam, which do you think is more orange?” Jack asks, snapping Sam out of his bittersweet daze. They ended up in the produce section at some point while Sam was moping, and Jack is standing in front of him expectantly, one orange in each hand.

“What?” Sam asks, coming back to the real world. “They’re both oranges.”

Jack sighs, put upon. “Yes, but I feel one is less orange than the other, and I’m not going to buy that.”

“They both look normal to me.”

“But which do you think is more _orange?_ Sam, I need to get my money’s worth.”

Sam rolls his eyes and huffs in exasperation while trying to hold back a fond smile. He really can’t see a difference between the orangeness of the oranges, but he inspects them anyway before pointing at the one in Jack’s right hand.

Jack nods. “Exactly,” he murmurs, turning away from Sam and carefully putting the orange in a bag.

 _Well, I’ll always have you,_ Sam thinks as he turns away from Jack, ready to look for some cheese and bread.

A man should be able to make sandwiches in his own home.

+

Josh manages to wake up without waking Vasquez this time, and he sneaks out of the apartment, thinking back fondly to when he was young and cool and did this to his one night stands.

He has to go to work. Ugh.

Josh gets out of the hallway quickly, but not before noticing that Jack’s door is open a crack. He rolls his eyes and closes it. Seriously, these guys.

When Josh gets home, he’s exhausted again, but it’s not the same as it was before, as he notes, with more than a little relief, that his body’s finally cooperating with the whole going to sleep thing. In that it’s willing to do it without much trouble.

…That’s when he hears a crash from the apartment over.

(Vasquez never seems clumsy when Josh is actually with him.)

Blinking sleep from his eyes, Josh huffs out an annoyed breath and remembers Vasquez and how he probably can’t shake insomnia as well as Josh can.

At least, not without Josh, for some reason.

Josh is in front of Vasquez’s apartment, knocking before he can actually process what he’s doing, which seems to happen a whole lot these days. Like he cares even before his brain knows about it. Disgusting. He’s turning into his mother. 

Vasquez opens the door, looking about as tired as usual. “What? So early?”

“You woke me up,” Josh says, and Vasquez looks almost affronted.

“You were _sleeping?_ You can sleep now?”

“Don’t sound so happy for me,” Josh mutters, brushing his way in. “What, you think you won’t be able to?”

“No, because I do not have the special talent of getting over sleeplessness in two nights.”

“Hey, I was up way more than just those two nights. Those were just when I was with _you.”_ Vasquez still looks stormy-eyed, which Josh can’t read as anything but jealousy. Josh feels a pang of pity. 

“Could really use a drunk fish right now, huh?” Josh tries to say lightly, but Vasquez turns miserable eyes towards him and he winces. It really must seem like he’s rubbing in his newfound ability to sleep in Vasquez’s face, at this point.

“Probably,” Vasquez says, and Josh is finally moved enough to just _offer_ to do the whole ‘sleeping with him’ thing again, even though _he_ might notneed it, because come on, it’s worked _twice,_ which makes it a pattern, and what kind of bro would he be if he didn’t offer to cuddle in the name of getting some goddamn rest for once?

So, with a _lot_ more emotion than he meant to, because damn it, he feels worse for Vasquez and his exhausted face than he did for his _own_ exhausted face when he was still stuck wearing it, Josh says, “Okay, this is ridiculous, Vasquez, I…look, _I’ll_ be your drunk fish.”

Josh is a little embarrassed after he finishes the sentence and realizes how weird it sounded, but Vasquez’s smile is worth it.

(“Nothing will ever make you feel better than being kind,” his mother always said blithely.

Josh has always made it his goal to disprove that, because being kind sure as shit didn’t get _her_ anywhere but off the transplant list, but now he’s starting to like making his ‘friends’ _smile._

That’s so gross.

Josh wouldn’t give any of these guys one of his damn organs, though.

That’s where he draws the line.)

He and Vasquez lock eyes for a lot longer than should be comfortable before the ice is broken by a voice floating down the hall. “Why do we have so many coupons?” Goodnight asks. “Haven’t we ever actually used them to buy something? Lord, who needs this much pizza?”

“You’re right, it’s unreasonable,” Billy agrees, and Vasquez and Josh raise their eyebrows at each other. Agreement. A turning point? “…But we can’t just throw them away. They’re food.”

“They’re coupons, they’re not _actually_ food. You don’t eat coupons.”

“Yes, Goody, I know, but we can’t waste them.”

“These all expire at midnight tomorrow,” Goodnight complains. “How did that happen? How could that _possibly_ happen?”

“Well,” Josh whispers as Goodnight and Billy devolve into squabbling once again, “I guess sleep can wait until _after_ the pizza gets here.”

Vasquez grins at Josh, because he’s also perfectly aware that Billy’s cheapness is going to win over Goodnight’s good sense, and Goodnight and Billy aren’t going to be able to eat all that pizza themselves. “Hey, you two!” Vasquez yells, actually opening the door and almost stepping out of his apartment. “I want sausage! And Josh wants…?”

“Hawaiian,” Josh says.

“The bad flavor!”

There’s a brief pause before other doors open and Jack, Sam, and Red Harvest, all of whom look like they’ve just been through hell, call out their own orders.

Billy and Goodnight themselves finally poke their heads out of their own apartment, looks of confusion on their faces. “How did you hear us?” Goodnight asks.

At the withering looks everyone else gives them, Billy sighs and shares a glance with Goodnight. “Well, this way…”

“You’re right,” is Goodnight’s response. He sighs. “Tonight, really? They expire midnight tomorrow, we could always—”

Sam cuts him off. “No, this is the only pizza place in existence that’s open twenty-four hours and I listened to an argument about Hummel figurines today. I’m not gonna wait for compensation.” He pauses, and then explains, “I’ve decided that this will be compensation.”

Sagely, Jack says, “He’s got a point. Besides, Red and I need to hold onto our food hoards as long as possible.”

Red Harvest nods in agreement. “Costco sucks.”

Goodnight lets out a groan. “Fine! I’ll call! At eleven o’ fucking clock at night, even though the food probably won’t get here until twelve, you goddamn freeloaders. You’re the ones who’re gonna regret it when you’re exhausted tomorrow!”

No one seems to be moved, and, for their part, Josh and Vasquez grin at each other and say, in unrehearsed unison, “I think we’ll live.”

**Author's Note:**

> It is what it is!
> 
> All of my knowledge about the pez borracho is from my father, who swears up and down that the whole 'it makes you sleep for two days' thing is, in fact, a thing. I'm not really sure of it, but I don't have to be.
> 
> Anyway, the next episode should probably be up sooner. I just went through a rough patch, found a new fandom, got really into Neopets, you know how it is. Plus I also have some other fics in this fandom that are actually canon era, so stay tuned!
> 
> However, I am promising literally nothing but the fact that next episode will be a Skiing Episode. You can't set a series in Colorado and NOT have one of those. It's gonna be a disaster.


End file.
